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Tula Kealiʻi · (06-26-2020)

“CYKA BLYATTTT!!!”

In news that should surprise no one, we have broken down.

Apparently Boris’ Soviet era car just wasn’t going to handle the heat of the Nevada desert. We have been lucky enough to make it into some dying town along old Route 66 – the kind of town that would have been amazing to see in the 50’s, but is now nothing more than a relic for tourists to drive by on their way to more interesting cities.

Speaking of relics, Boris isn’t giving up on his machine, which is older than I am, quite yet. Despite the black smoke coming out of the hood, Boris is determined to get this car running again. Not that I can blame him – he did put $11,000 into the car. Granted, 10k of it went into the sound system in the trunk, but still.

Boris has the hood up and is tinkering around with the engine, which looks like something you would see in a World War II tank. He is dumping bottles of water onto it, causing the engine to sizzle and the smoke and the smoke to rise, which is always a good sign.

“Face it, Boris – your car is fucked.”

Boris picks his head out of the hood and stares at me like an Italian mother who was just told her son didn’t want anything to eat.

“Is not fucked! American roads were just not ready for the brilliance of Slavic manufacturing! Give it few minutes, it cool down and we will be back on road in no time.”

I didn’t have the time nor the patience to argue with Boris. Somehow he was able to survive as long as he had in this world being…well, him. And I’m not going to mess with success, even if it goes against everything I’ve ever known.

“Boris will grab snacks. You want something blin?”

“Grab me a Coke…and some Cheetos, if they have any.”

Boris walks away from the car and towards a small general store, where he is likely to stick out like a sore thumb. Still, it’s better to be a weird Slavic dude with a yellow tracksuit in these parts than be a woman of color. Besides, I’m pretty sure he has at least two handguns underneath that tracksuit at all times.

As Boris walks away, I decide to check my phone. I have not been on Twitter for a while, so perhaps now is the time to get updated on the world around me. Let’s see…skinny blondes in bikinis, that’s the majority of my news feed. Coronavirus on the rise? Who could have seen that one coming? Sexual assault rampant in professional wrestling? Weird, these men always seemed like stable individuals to me. More blondes in bikinis, some vague subtweets that sound like they come from a middle schooler…

“Son of a bitch!”

I can’t believe what I just come across. Sometime in the past few days, while Boris and I have been on the road, the XWF has decided to update my match and add a third competitor. Originally, on Saturday Savage, I was scheduled to face Melanie Childs one on one. I don’t know when or why, but somewhere along the way, they decided to toss Gage Gannon into the match, as well.

I rack my brain around this new development. Gage Gannon…I don’t know him. I don’t think I’ve ever even heard of him. Perhaps that is why he was added to our match – he needed a good debut somewhere, and so they shoehorned him in. I guess that’s how this goes sometimes, but a courtesy phone call would have been nice. I guess that’s too much to ask.

The entire XWF is in flux at the moment. Centurion is no longer the Hart Champion, which is a sentence no one has said in approximately 10 years. Shawn Warstein seems content in just placing the biggest title in the federation down on the mat. And on Anarchy, the Brotherhood of Baddies continues to grow.

As I contemplate my existence, Boris comes walking back out of the store with two bags of goods. I raise my eyebrow in confusion – this isn’t a grocery store. Hell, it isn’t even one of those gas stations that has the hot dogs Boris likes so much. This is just a hole in the wall general store.

“What the hell did you buy?”

Boris reaches into one of the bags and tosses me my Cheetos. He then begins laying out the snacks he bought – Little Debbie snack cakes, beef jerky, mini donuts, a bottle of Tums, two 2 Liter bottles of Canada Dry Ginger Ale, and a can of Coke, which he promptly hands me. He also pulls out an air freshner, “Route 66” ashtray, and a hammer.

“Ok…do I want to ask why you got this stuff?”

“Air freshner is for Lada. It help make car not smell like Boris sweat the entire trip.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Novelty ashtray is just for decoration. How many times will we be on Route 66 blin? Boris likes to keep trinkets of his travels. And this…”

Boris picks up the hammer, which causes me to take a step back. Now that I EXPECT Boris to just start randomly swinging at me, but you never know with this guy.

“…is for this.”

In one swift motion, Boris wails the engine of the car, causing it to sputter and spit before cranking up completely. I look in part shock and part horror. This thing is running on hopes and dreams at this point, but I give credit where it’s due – I did not expect to hear this machine running again.

“Oppa!!”

Boris packs up his snacks and tosses them into the “back seat”, or what was the back seat 30 years ago, before climbing into the front seat of the car.

“Let’s go comrade!”

All I can do is shrug my shoulders and open my bag of Cheetos. This adventure appears as if it will never end…and honestly, I don’t know if I want it to.

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Allow me to first apologize to Gage Gannon. I honestly had no clue you were even in this match.

Though…that may say more about you than it does about me.

Anyway, I didn’t know we would be fighting. If I did, I certainly would have said something about you the last time I spoke to the audience. I wasn’t ignoring you or trying to disrespect you or anything like that. It’s just that you were added to the match after I had already looked at the card.

“Card Subject To Change”, am I right? I guess I never took those words literally. Maybe I should have.

Anyway, it’s good to see you, Gage. Welcome to the match…

…be prepared to eat a loss.

I know you’re probably rubbing your hands together, thinking you already have this one won. After all, you kind of flew under my radar. All this time, I was preparing for a singles match, and here you come, strolling into the ring as confident as can be. You’re already under Melanie’s skin. That much is obvious. And if I know absolutely nothing about you, then you must have the advantage, right?

Please.

Let me get the obvious thing out of the way first – you and Melanie have some sort of weird blood feud that I don’t want a part of. She hates you. I don’t know WHY she hates you, but she does. And you have been itching to get your hands on her since she got all up in your business. And let’s not forget, a big win for either of you elevates you up the card. Savage is lacking in stars at the moment, and either one of you could swoop in and ride the next wave up the top. So you’re going to scratch and claw and bleed all over one another in order to leave the other behind.

This has nothing to do with me. Honestly, I don’t give a shit which one of you survives.

See, you said something in your last speech that rings true…mostly. “It’s not personal.” And you’re right, it isn’t…at least, not between us. But between you and Melanie? Oh, that IS personal. It’s so personal that it may make somebody lose their focus just a little bit. Maybe make someone spend all their energy on pumling somebody?

I’m at an ultimate advantage, Gage. I know you may think you are, being the only man in the ring and whatnot. I’m not sure what your policy is on women and fighting – if you’re one of those “I don’t see gender, I’ll beat up anyone” types, or if you’re one of those “ladies are weaker than men, I just don’t want to get cancelled and say it out loud” types. Again, know absolutely nothing about you, and unlike my opponents, I’m not just going to go to the XWF web site and pull up your bio page to try and find out some information on you.

Gage, I have something to tell you, and I want you to listen close. There is a chance you may win this match. A CHANCE. It is, after all, a triple threat. Anything can happen. You may be so ready to bury Melanie that you’re able to get her to tap out before I’m able to do anything about it. That’s fine, but even if that happens…you are FAR from the best. You can walk down that ring and put on an absolute clinic of a match, and you still won’t be the best. That’s the cold honest truth. Beating Melanie Childs, or hell, even beating me does not prove you belong at the top of this place. If you want to prove it, step in the ring against one of the “big boys” – one of the top competitors in this federation, and see how long you last.

Better yet, fight me one on one. Get Melanie out of the ring, because we know she can’t win, and just have the two of us beat the snot out of each other. If you wish to prove your worth, that’s how you do it. I’m letting you know, right now, if you win this match by pinning or submitting Melanie, I WILL call your toughness into question. I’m not even going to beat around the bush here. I know, it sucks, but you should have brought that up to management before they made this a triple threat match. It screwed you from the very beginning.

As for you, Miss Melanie, you…well, you certainly are an odd duck, aren’t you? I know that’s not a surprise, given your nickname is literally “Crazy”, but like…that could mean anything. People use the term “crazy” to describe women as a means of putting them down. Happens all the time. “The crazy ex-girlfriend”. More than likely, you were an abusive ex-boyfriend, and she’s lashing out through her trauma, but this world is so buried under the patriarchy that the woman is always dismissed in that situation. Men are just “dudes”. They’re “bros”. They mess around and have fun, but women, oh they’re “crazy”. That being said…

You are pretty nuts, Melanie. Your words are so off you might as well be speaking in tongues. You have this weird obsession with Gage Gannon that I don’t really understand – I mean, I get the Vita Valenteen thing, even if it was borderline stalker behavior, but Gage? Not really sure what your end game with that one is. You apparently have a crush on me, which…I’m flattered, but I don’t think it would be wise for someone with your…mental condition to be dating anyone.

You need to work on you, Melanie. Take some time off to relax. Get some therapy. Get on some medications. It’s honestly a really good idea. I’ve been in therapy since I came back from the desert, and it’s helped me out tremendously. If your stablemates had your best interest at heart, they would push you toward doing the same. Maybe when you get some help, you can just be “Melanie Childs”. No more using that “crazy” stuff. All that’s going to do is put you in a box for others to observe you. You’re going to be seen as some kind of zoo animal, and you’re much more than that, Melanie. You’re a person. You’re a fighter worthy of respect, and you’re not going to get it as long as you keep perpetuating the “crazy lady” stereotype.

I wish the best for you, Melanie. Truly, I do. And you too, Gage. I hope you both get your one on one match where you can settle things amongst yourselves. I would love nothing more than to still be here five years from now, and we have this same match again, only for a title. It could happen. Then again, two of the three of us could be gone within a month. That’s just what happens in this business. And I don’t know about either of you, but I’m in this for the long haul, and I plan on making my mark by winning matches. You two just happen to be the next step.

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